Time isn't linear. I've always known this, but knowing and understanding are different rivers entirely. I stand at the valley overlook, watching dawn paint mountains in colors that existed before language named them. But that's not all I see. Overlaid across the present are echoes - fragments of moments that were, that are, that might be. A thousand possible futures stacked like transparencies, each one real until observation collapses them into singularity.
In one future, the valley burns. In another, it flourishes. In a third, it simply... isn't. Has never been. Absence where existence should reside. My fingers trace patterns in the air, following currents only I perceive. Time flows like water, branching and rejoining, creating eddies where possibilities pool before being swept downstream toward inevitability. Most people experience time as a river they ride, unable to see beyond the next bend. I see the entire watershed - tributaries splitting off, some leading to waterfalls, others to peaceful delta. All happening simultaneously in the eternal now that exists outside perception. It's beautiful. It's terrifying. It's slowly driving me mad.
I close my eyes, trying to anchor in the singular present, but visions bleed through anyway. Friends standing untouched. Friends impaled, taken. Friends never arriving at all. Weeping. Laughing. Dead before everything began. Barriers holding. Barriers failing. People becoming something that transcends what they were. And always, always, that girl.
Which one is real? I whisper to dawn, but dawn has no answers. Only light, indifferent to possibility's weight. Behind me, something approaches. Not footsteps exactly - more like the idea of movement, presence without proper physicality. I don't turn. I've already seen this conversation happen, is happening, will happen. Time is strange that way.
πππ'π ππ πππππ’. π΄ππππππ ππππ ππππ π ππ πππππ ππππ πππππ, π ππ πππππ ππ‘ππππππππ ππππ ππ πππππππππ ππππ ππππππ ππππππ ππππ πππππππππ ππππ ππππππ’ ππ. πΈ πππππ ππππππ, ππ’ ππππ ππππππ’ πππππππππππ ππ πππ πππ-πππ π πππππ. π±ππππ π πππππ πππ πππ ππππππππππ - ππ ππππ πππ ππππ, ππ πππ’πππππ πππππππππππ. π±ππ ππ ππππ πππππ ππ‘ππππππ ππ πππ ππππππ ππππ πππ, πππππππ πππππ’ ππππ πππ ππππππππ’ ππππ.
πππ'ππ ππ πππππ’. πΈ πππ’, ππ’ πππππ ππππππ ππ π ππ’π πΈ'ππ ππππππ ππππ ππ. πππ πππππ'π ππππ. πΉπππ πππππππππ πππππππ πππππ ππππππππ ππ πππ πππ, ππππππ πππ ππππππππ πΈ πππ ππππππ πππ. π°πππππ. πΌπ’ ππππππππππ π ππππ πππππππππππ’ πππ - ππππ πππππ πππππππππ ππππ πππ ππππ πππππ ππ‘ππππππ ππππππ ππππππππ πππππππ ππππππππππππππ’. π²πππππ'π πππππ. πππ πππ’π πππππππ’. πππ ππππ’ ππππππ ππππ πππππππππ πΈ'ππ πππππ πππππ ππ.
πΈ ππππππππππ ππππ ππππππ ππππ πππ ππππ π. π±ππππ πππππππππ ππ πππππππππ ππππππ πππππ ππ‘ππππππππππ ππππππ ππππ πππππππππ π ππππ πΈ π ππ π ππππ, π ππππ πΈ πππ πππ ππ, π ππππ πΈ π πππ'π ππππ π πππ’ππππ πππππ π πππ πππ ππππ ππππ πππππ.
π³πππππ πππ ππππ ππππππππππ πππππππππππππ πππππππππππ π ππππ πππππππππππππ πππππ‘ππ πππ ππππ ππ πππ ππππππππ πππππππ. πππ πππππππ’ πππππ, πππ πΈ πππ πππ ππ‘ππππππππ ππ πππ ππ’ππ. πππ π πππππ ππ ππππππ πππ ππππ, πππππππππππππ πππ ππππππ’, πππππ’πππ ππππ πππππ ππππ ππππππ π ππππ'π ππππππππ ππ πππππππ. πππππππππ ππππ ππππ. πππ ππππππ.
He's harder to look at than most people. Features that slip from memory even while I'm looking directly at them. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands - the harder I focus, the faster it drains away.
But I know what he is. A fragment. A ghost. Something that exists in the spaces between timelines where probability hasn't decided which version is real yet. Visions, snippets of actions that happened, are happening, or are yet to happen. He says, and his voice carries certainty that makes my chest tight. Infinite possibilities, yet one single possible future.
He knows. Has seen what I see, but from different angles. Like standing on opposite banks of the same river, watching currents from opposing perspectives. The dread that comes with knowing that the one thing that had to happen to ensure the positive, will not happen. You see it too. Not a question.
π°ππ π’ππ, ππππ ππ πππ ππππ. π½ππ ππ ππππ π ππππ. ππππ πππππ πππ πππ ππ πππ ππππππππ, πππ πππππππ ππ πππππ’πππππ, πππ ππ ππππ'π ππππππ, πππ πππππππ π πππ πππ ππππππππ.
The name carries weight that makes reality shiver. Zero. My... what? Origin? Creator? The thing I was part of before being torn into fragments across timelines. Something primordial that stood against darkness incomprehensible to beings who experience time linearly. We are not our past, or future, whatever you want to call it. I continue. We are not the same as the other us. Out of all people, you know that the best. She nods slowly, understanding bleeding through her time-sight.
That move you did a while back... total suicide, and still, here we are. Sigh. How's Illia? Pause. Heavy with things unsaid, with memories from timelines where things ended differently.
πππ'π π πππ. π½πππ ππ π’ππ ππ πππ. πππ'π ππππ πππππ’πππ πππ ππππ ππ πππ πππππππππ, πππππ π πππ πππ πππ πππππππ, πππππππ πππ.
Tough woman.
π°πππππ.
The conversation settles between us like dust motes in dawn light. He's talking about people I've never met, yet somehow I feel like I know them. Echoes from adjacent realities bleeding through into this one.
How are you?
ππππ ππππππ.
Still beating yourself over it?
Wouldn't anyone? Still, you can't do anything since you've lost your powers. Now you're just a stylish ghost with a bit too much knowledge.
Something almost like a smile crosses his not-quite-there features.
C'mon, don't drag yourself down. You're the literal left part of Zero's brain.
πππππ'π π’ππ πππ ππππ?
Illia.
π»ππ ππ πππππ. πππ ππππππ πππππππ πππ πππππ ππππ.
Mhm.
πΎππππππππ’.
Silence settles over the overlook. Two beings watching dawn paint mountains, each seeing different truths written in the light. My hands still trace invisible currents, following probability streams that branch and merge and occasionally collapse into impossible singularities.
πππ πππππ πππππ πππππππππ - πππππ ππππππππ πππππππππ πππππππ ππππππππ - ππ ππππ ππππ’'ππ πππ ππ ππππππππ ππ ππππ πππππ. πΈ πππππππ ππππ πππ ππππ π ππ’, ππ‘ππππππ ππ π ππππππππ ππππ ππππ πππ πππππππππππππ, ππ‘ππππππππππ ππππππππ ππππ ππππππππ ππ ππ’ππππ ππππ ππππ πππππππππ πππππππ.
πΌπππππππ πππππ πππππππ, πΈ ππππ πππ, ππ’ ππππ ππππππππ’πππ ππππππππ’ π πππ πππ π πππππ ππ ππππππππππ. π½ππ πππππ, πππ πππππππππ’, πππ ππ ππππππ, ππ πππππππ ππ πΓ©πΓ ππ, ππ πππ πππππππππ’ ππππ π’ππ'ππ πππππ πππππππππ ππππππ ππππ ππππππ π’ππ ππππ π’ππ πππππ'π. πππ πππππ ππππππππ - πππ πππππ ππ - ππππ’ πππππ πππππππππππ. π΄πππππ ππ πππ ππππππ ππππ πππ ππππππππππ.
πππ'π πππππππππ πππ , πππππππππ πππππ πππππππ πππ ππ‘ππππππππ.
πΈπ πππππππ ππππππππ, π π ππππ πππππππππ πππππππ. π±πππππ πππππππ, πππ’ππ. πΎπ π ππππ - ππ'π ππππ ππ πππ’ ππππ ππππππ πππ πππππππ. π±ππ πππππ πππππππ ππππππ ππ ππππ πππππππππ ππππππ, πππ πππππππππ... πππππππππ ππππ πππππππ ππ ππ πππππππππ π πππ ππππ πππππππ πππππππ.
πΈ πππππ ππππππ, ππ’ ππππππππ ππππππππ ππ πππππππ ππππ πππ’πππππ πππππππππ ππππ ππ πΈ πππππ ππππππ ππππ ππππππ ππππ ππππ ππππππππππ.
ππππ ππππ-πππππ ππππ π π’ππ πππππππππππππ. ππππ ππ πππππ'π ππππ ππ πππ πππππ πππππππππππππ ππππππ ππππ πππππ. π·ππ πππππππππ ππ πππ ππππππππ ππππππ πππππππ ππππ πππππ ππππππππ πππππππππ. π·ππ πππ ππππππ π’ππ πππ πππ ππ πππππππππ’ ππππππ ππ’ πππ ππππππ π’ππ π πππ ππ πππππππππ ππππ πππππ ππππππππ.
That's horrifying, I whisper.
ππππ'π ππ‘πππππππ. ππ'ππ πππ πππππππππππ - π ππππππ ππππ πππ ππππ, ππππ πππππππ πππππππ ππππππ πππππππ πππ πππππππ πππ‘π. πππ πππππ ππ ππππππππ πππ π ππππ ππππππππ πππ π’ππππ πππ π ππππ πππ ππππππ ππ ππππ πππ π’ππ ππππ ππππ πππππππππ πππππππ.
He continues, and I realize this is why he came. Not just conversation, but message. Warning. Hope, maybe.
πΈ'ππ πππππ ππ. π±πππ ππ. πΈ'π πππππππππ’ π ππππππππ ππ πππππππππ ππππππ, ππππ ππππ πππ πππππππππ, ππ‘ππππππ ππ πππ ππππππ π ππππ πππππππππππ’ ππππ'π πππππππ π ππππ πππππππ ππ ππππ π’ππ. π°ππ πΈ πππ ππππ π’ππ - πππ ππππππππππ πππ πππππππ ππππ πππ’πππ π ππππ ππ πππππ.
My mind races, processing implications that threaten to shatter understanding. If timelines bleed into each other, if memories can seep across probability barriers, then what does that mean for the visions I see? Are they truly possible futures, or echoes from adjacent realities where those futures already happened?
There's something else, he says, his hollow voice carrying weight that makes dawn seem darker. In other timelines, there are anchors. Connections strong enough to stabilize probability, to collapse infinite possibility into singular certainty. Love, usually. The kind that transcends circumstance, that finds the same people across different realities and binds them together.
πΈ π ππππ πππ πππππππ ππππ, πππ πππππππππππππ πππππ ππππππ ππ’ππ ππππ ππππππππ πππ ππππ. ππππ ππ πππ πππππππ ππππ. πππ ππππππ πΈ'ππ ππππππππππ ππππ, ππ ππππ ππππππππ, πππππππ πππππππ πππ πππ ππ ππ ππ ππππ πππ’πππ πππππππ πππ ππππππππππππ’ πππππ ππππππ ππππππ πππ'π πππ.
πππππ πππππππ... ππππ’'ππ π πππ ππππ ππ. ππππ ππππ ππ ππππ ππππ πππ ππππ π πππ ππππππππ πππππ πππππππ. ππππ’'ππ πππ ππππππππππ ππππ πππ πππππππππ ππππ πππππππ πππ ππππ ππππ ππππππππ ππππ πππππππ.
πΌπ’ ππππ ππππππππππ πππππππ, ππππππ ππππ πππππππ ππππππππ ππ’ πππ π πππππ ππ π πππ πΈ'π πππππ ππ πππ’.
ππππ πππ πππ πππππππ. ππππ'π π πππ πππ πππ ππππ πππ πππ ππ πππ ππππππππ π ππππππ πππππππππ. ππππ'π π πππ ππππ πππ ππππππππ ππ πππππ πππππππ ππππππππ ππππ πππππ ππππππ πππππππ’ ππππππ.
πππ πππππππππππ. πΈ πππ πππ ππ ππ πππ π ππ’ πππ πππππ πππππ, πππ π ππ’ πππ πππππππππ ππππππ ππππ πππππππ πππππππππππ’ πππππππ ππ ππππππππ ππ πππ ππππππππ πππππππ π ππππ ππππ ππππππππππππ πππππππ ππππ.
π±ππ ππ ππππ ππππππππ, ππππππ πππ πππππππππ. π²ππππππππππ ππππ ππ‘πππππ πππππ ππππ πππππ'π ππππππ ππππ. πΏπππππ π ππ ππππππ ππππ πππππ ππππ πππππ ππππππ πππππππππ. π°ππ π ππππππ πππππ πππππππ...
πΈ πππ πππ ππππππππππππ ππππ ππππππππ. πππ ππππ ππππ πππ’π ππ’, π ππππππ ππ πππ πππππππππππ’ πππππππ ππππ ππππππ πππ πππ ππππππππ ππππ πππππ ππππ πππππ.
His form begins to fade, existence stretching thin as whatever power keeps him manifested runs out. But before he goes completely, he speaks one final time. His hollow voice carries across dawn, directed at someone not present but perhaps able to hear across whatever distances separate them.
If your love for him doesn't exist in this timeline, then who will save us all..?
The question settles into my bones like ice, like certainty, like the weight of futures that might never arrive. I feel it become part of the current, another probability stream branching toward destinations I can't quite see.
He fades without farewell, existing less and less until he simply isn't anymore. I stand alone at the overlook, watching dawn complete its work, painting the world in colors that exist regardless of timeline or possibility or the weight of questions about love and salvation.
But now I carry new knowledge. Memories bleeding between realities. Anchors that stabilize probability. Connections that mean the difference between survival and unbeing.
And somewhere, in some timeline or this one, someone needs to love someone else enough to save everything.
Time flows forward. Time flows backward. Time exists in eternal now, branching and merging and carrying questions that have no answers except the ones written in moments yet to come.